If Angel Campos is not on the take to manipulate baseball games he should be. Both teams got mocked at the plate by this cartel conspirator, this dreamkilling fleshbag of deceit, this hoarder of power, this dark angel of campfoddery.
The predictability of his makeup calls at the plate - signaling awfully located pitches as strikes after corner-blackening masterpieces had been scoffed at as balls - the hallmark of amateurish guilt was dolloped on top of this burrito like vinegar-flavored sour cream at the day-old buffet.
Blame of the Game
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